He Asked For His Best Shot
by RogueFanKC
Summary: The crossover of the century where Steven Rogers and Bucky Barnes run into John Watson and Sherlock Holmes in London! In the middle of an Ultron robot invasion no less (eh, it's pretty much the standard in this universe). Steve Rogers and John Watson are getting along wonderfully. Sherlock Holmes and Bucky Barnes on the other hand...


_Bang!_

John's heart was a steady rhythm, unruffled as the Ultron drone collapsed to the pavement, twitching. The gaping, non-functional eye-socket where John's bullet passed through was the only telltale sign of damage to the metal robot, and yet miraculously, it was enough to cause the machine to go completely haywire once the metal slug entered its brain.

Both John and Sherlock slowly analyzed their surroundings, but to their immense relief, all of the surrounding enemies were now offline and dismantled. Despite the horrific monsters strewn helter-skelter, the number of windows smashed, brick and stone walls singed by laser fire, and how the bottom floor of 221 was still on fire (Mrs. Hudson was going to have a fit), at the very least, John and Sherlock were still alive.

As well as their two mysterious helpers…

John did a double take as he then understood whom he was in the presence of.

Given the number of reporters and civilians taking their phones and cameras to shoot pictures of him and Sherlock amid the numerous metal automatons strewn about, it was probably a safe bet that not even Mycroft's influence could keep this silent from the press.

"Good marksmanship," mused Captain America, his eyes twinkling under his helmet as he surveyed the wreckage all around Baker Street, "You're an even better shot than I initially thought, Doctor Watson."

John blinked at the compliment as he lowered his Siger; the fact that he was being addressed by **Captain America** of all people…

"Er…thank you…?" John replied back with a nervous smile.

Granted, to be fair, one could chalk up to being too edgy to form a complete sentence after fighting against a crowd of killer robots invading their flat and home. Still, to be in the presence of **one of the Avengers** , a hero who helped saved the planet multiple times and the recently demolished Sokovia…

Steven didn't seem the least bit offended as he tugged the mask off his face, revealing his tousled blond hair and "country-boy" good looks.

Despite Lestrade and the other officers of Scotland Yard barricading the spectators from approaching anywhere near their vicinity, it didn't stop the number of flashes and cameras memorializing this once-in-a-lifetime moment.

John just prayed Sherlock couldn't deduce how John's heart skipped a beat upon looking at the handsome superhero, his blond hair tousled and his clear eyes of cornflower focusing benevolently on him with a gentle smile.

Captain America stepped a bit closer (closer than Sherlock would have liked) as he dropped his voice to a murmur.

"I'm glad you're doing better. Granted, it's not every day a soldier has one of his own comrades come back from the dead. Then again…"

Steve paused as he and John turned to Bucky and Sherlock in the distance, the two men glaring daggers at each other on the sidelines, ignoring the various calls of the journalists from the sidelines for statements.

"…I'm one to talk," finished Steve, his voice fond with memory and understanding.

John blinked.

"I do apologize for asking, but have we met?" John finally queried, puzzled.

Steve regarded John solemnly before he spoke in his calm and baritone voice.

"Doesn't matter what the press says. Doesn't matter what the politicians or the mobs say. Doesn't matter if the whole country decides that something wrong is something right. This nation was founded on one principle above all else: the requirement that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or the consequences. When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world - 'No, **you** move.'"

John's eyes widened as he recognized the words.

The one lone commenter on his blog…

The lifeline of support amid the hate, the trolls, the various news and articles tarnishing Sherlock's name during those two long years, the one other person who stoutly believed until more and more like Anderson followed suit once the facts starting creeping out of the woodwork…

The one who never stopped to send private messages to John asking a simple "How are you feeling?" every week like clockwork despite John never having the strength to respond back…

"You're…you're the ' _Star_Spangled_Man_with_a_Plan_ '…" breathed John in grateful astonishment, the username of the blog commentator falling easily off his lips.

Steve, to his credit, blushed and scratched his head in embarrassment, looking like an awkward Labrador puppy.

"Yeah, I'm a follower of your blog, but even though S.H.I.E.L.D. refused to intervene, I just couldn't stand by and do nothing. I knew better than to think you or Sherlock would be capable to kidnapping two innocent kids. But, still, sorry I couldn't do much…"

"You did," John murmured with appreciation, "You have no idea how much of just having one supporter from the start was a blessing."

"Just standing up for what's right, Captain. Besides, I would never let anyone attack a good man like Sherlock," Steve said as he politely saluted to John, immediately rising in John's regard and esteem.

The good doctor blinked back tears as he then did something quite daring and unconsciously without thought or preamble (and caused Sherlock's annoyance to rise exponentially).

John reached out and grabbed Captain America's hand and shook it gently but with touched reverence, prompting a million cameras to go off and hushed, excited chattering.

"Don't salute to me. _**Never**_ to me," John requested.

Steve automatically understood, that unspoken demand for humility and equal regard.

Captain America then patted John on the shoulder with his other hand, already acting as if they were fellow brothers-at-arms.

Anderson, who was watching with Anthea on the CCTV, squealed before he fainted dead away on the office floor in pure, blissful euphoria.

Anthea blushed as she inwardly smiled and watched on (she would _never_ admit out loud that Anderson converted her to a fangirl).

After a few moments of looking at each other's' eyes, the two Captains lowered their gazes and blushed, not sure how to voice their feelings. Thankfully, years of dealing with the unorthodox of Sherlock had John segue his offer seamlessly.

"Well, Speedy's makes a great cup of coffee if you and the Winter Soldier are in the mood to talk to an ordinary consulting detective and his partner," John suggested.

Steve smiled warmly as he replied, "His name is Bucky, _**not**_ the Winter Soldier. And actually, we'd be both down for a beer if you and Sherlock would like, Doctor Watson."

"Even better," John grinned cheekily before offering out his hand, "And it's finally nice to meet you, Mister 'Star_Spangled_Man_with_a_Plan'."

"Call me Steve or Steven," Captain America chuckled as he strongly and firmly shook John's hand, "All my friends do."

" _Are_ we friends?" John asked, one eyebrow raised, and his smirk being mischievously lewd.

"Depends if you're buying."

John laughed, truly feeling lighter, as he said, "I suppose a poor retired Army doctor can manage. And call me John, if you please, Steven. All right?"

"The honor is mine, John," Steven nodded.

Meanwhile, glowering from the outside, Sherlock was not liking this new development.

 _ **Not. One. Stuffing. Bit.**_

Sherlock, still holding his steel harpoon, automatically thought of the dozen different ways he could insert it into Captain America's body for maximum sensory activation in the nociceptors.

Non-lethally, of course.

Maybe.

If perhaps the shaggy-haired twit did not boldly and arrogantly step right in front and blocked Sherlock's path like some disillusioned knight or body-guard, brow furrowed and arms at his sides, centering his balance passive-aggressively, and muscles taut.

Sherlock decided that the verbal assault would be the more devastating for the muscle-bound hoof.

Sherlock then deduced, taking his time to voice his deductions in a moderate pace for the daft, barmy arsehole, "Your center of gravity is slightly off to compensate the metal prosthetic in your left arm, given the way your leg muscles on your left side are slightly stiffer and flexing far more prominently underneath your trousers. You live with fellow geniuses Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, and yet you still keep the old relic of years bygone during World War Two when far more technological and safer alternatives are literally available at your fingertips that can make the arm Hydra gave you obsolete. You have chosen to keep it, though it clearly is not as a memento of happier memories considering you absconded from Hydra after its exposure."

Bucky didn't even move a centimeter, and Sherlock decided to press further, gaining speed as his eyes raked offensively up and down Bucky Barnes' body.

"It is not a matter of comfort, given the ratty state of your second – no, _**third-hand**_ jacket and dirty jeans which clearly were retrieved from a dumpster. No, it is a matter of anxiety brought up by guilt and shame. Signs of your veins protruding out of neck and forehead, your brow is sweaty despite the coolness of the weather and how no other parts of your upper torso are perspiring and clammy regardless of fighting a rather grueling battle with killer machines, meaning you have facial flushing and heart palpitations. Yet you have little to no body fat, given your muscular build and probably exercise regimens that would have exhausted lesser men who never endured such rigorous training, so your heart isn't due to poor eating and exercise habits. Thus, your hypertension and high blood pressure are a result from anxiety and uncontrollable rage. Your eyes are bloodshot with specks of subconjunctival hemorrhaging, meaning that you have problems achieving Stage N3 and REM sleep patterns, indicating you most likely have night terrors. You keep the arm because you feel you deserve to be reminded of your past sins as an assassin, a pathetic act of self-flagellation."

Bucky still remained perfectly still, his expression not changing in the slightest. Sherlock had to marvel that Bucky didn't seem to even be breathing, as if built from cold stone and steel.

"You have not yet been intimate with your beloved Captain, although given the slight bruising on your neck as indication of hickeys from your cuddling therapy, which is a _complete_ crock, I can assure you, you are not above kissing and close hugs. However, the way your way of standing straight unorthodoxly clenches the posterior muscles of your thighs and rear end indicating previous trauma. It would be safe to deduce that under Hydra's control, you had been raped by numerous soldiers wanting simple release or, to be crude, a meaningless, 'no-strings-attached' carnal intercourse. _Repeatedly_."

Sherlock couldn't help but ghoulishly grin in victory as Bucky's eyes narrowed ever so slightly and Bucky's quivering, metal hand clenched automatically into a fist.

Steve, from the distance, gave a worried glance out of the corner of his eye.

John sighed as he rubbed his eyes tiredly, murmuring, "Not good…"

The Consulting Detective then rubbed the extra salt in the wound as he gloated, "Oh, but do not worry. If being a brainwashed ex-assassin used as the public ' _bicycle_ ' for a terrorist group dedicated to subjugating the world and killing millions was not enough to deter Captain Rogers away from your side, nothing will. He's annoying loyal. Which _ **is**_ a trait I very much admire, if it is any consolation to you. Unfortunately for you, the good Captain America is also incredibly naïve and idealistic to the point of being senile. Which makes me ponder how many more days before not even true love and nostalgia can convince your on-again, off-again Army aficionado to debate about the benefits of keeping you on your proverbial leash given by S.H.I.E.L.D."

Sherlock, now feeling he had adequately made his point, strode forward, making his way past Bucky and towards Captain America, intent on delivering another round of scathing deductions and reduce Steven into an insecure and quivering mess.

Until Bucky roughly grabbed Sherlock's arm by the elbow, halting the Detective from striding any further.

John and Steven's head both perked up.

Lestrade felt his hand go to his firearm instinctively while Donovan gleefully stared with eager eyes, hoping the infamous Winter Soldier would finally punch that berk's light's out (and she'd get a front row seat)!

The audience of onlookers and bystanders all around whispered furiously and fearfully in hushed tones, anticipating a bloodbath.

Unafraid, Sherlock just haughtily looked at Bucky's cold, dull eyes with his nose upwards.

In front of all these witnesses? And in front of Scotland Yard's officers?

Bucky Barnes was apparently stupider than he thought.

"Well, what are you waiting for, _Winter Solder_?" Sherlock drawled, adding venomous emphasis on the moniker, "Take your best shot."

It was then that Bucky finally smirked, his smile arctic and predatory, as he leaned closer and whispered.

"When they put down Redbeard, your mother and father cried. **Mycroft didn't** ," Bucky intoned.

The Mind Palace screeched to a crashing halt.

Sherlock's eyes went wide as his mouth uncharacteristically dropped a bit, agape with shock.

Sherlock could not help it; he was thoroughly taken aback and stunned.

And watching from the CCTV…so was Mycroft.


End file.
